Fire and Ice
by clomle44
Summary: Written in first person, but the P.O.V. switches,  naughty girl that I am.   I'll tell ya who it is as it goes along. Warning: Adult content in later chapters  NC17
1. Chapter 1

I felt like writing this. When I feel like writing, I do so. This will be a slightly longer fic, though I can't decide whether or not it'll be 10 or 30 chapters. I guess I'll see how it goes.

A/O

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Alex Cabot or Olivia Benson, Dick Wolf does. Nor do I make any money from taking them and smushing them together like two plasticine figurines.

Rating: A.

* 8* 8*8 *8 *

**Chapter 1**

There are so many words that come to mind when I think of her. The fact that I think of her so often is probably cause enough for alarm. Ever since she so casually strode into the precinct that day, I've been thinking about her. I don't know when my thoughts no longer followed the same path but took on a life of their own, but now I can't make them stop.

She was our very first dedicated ADA. When she started, we all thought the same thing: stuck-up bitch, thinks she can tell us how to do our jobs. She does, of course, tell us how to do our jobs, that is. Most irritatingly, she's usually right, not always, but usually.

Hard. Alex Cabot is hard. I'm not the softest egg in the dozen. I've been working Sex Crimes for a few years now and that will harden up nearly anyone. I pride myself that with the vics, at least, I'm still Olivia-with-a-heart.

I've seen her. She's got a heart. I've seen her with the most damaged of people and seen how carefully she handles them. But I've also seen how she deals with the perps and there's no other word for her then but hard.

How she makes me feel? Fire.

She makes me feel like I'm on fire all of the time. 24/7, I'm just burning up. Sometimes, it's rage, usually it's confusion that burns my brain to a cinder as I try to make it function properly. Never once, not in the entire time we've worked together, has she ever deliberately caused these emotions in me, but that doesn't mean they're not there.

She makes me burn.

This is a new feeling for me and I don't know how to deal with it, so I don't. I haven't thus far and, since nothing will ever change, I don't see any reason to figure it out now. Instead, I just try to get on with my life. And I try to do that without bursting into flame. I manage most of the time.

She encourages nothing. She encourages no overtures of friendship, no frustrating hints that I might not be off-base. I'm off-base. Alex is about as aloof as it gets and I wonder if, deep down inside, that's the problem.

Am I simply chasing - craving, really - that which I can't have?

I watch her now, as she puts the final touches to her closing arguments to the jury. As per usual, they're mesmerized by her, utterly entranced by the story she's weaving. If anyone can be persuasive, it's Alex Cabot. I can see the look of worry that's creased across the defense attorney's face. He knows the jury took her words seriously and he's not sure he can win.

I know he can't.

When she walks back to her seat, I lean forward, my elbows on my knees. I worked hard on this case and I made sure whatever I gave her was air-tight. These days, though, that seems to mean little in a court of law and I've seen plenty of scum bags walk away from air-tight evidence. Very few of them have been prosecuted by Alex Cabot, however.

I hope, without any reason, that, as she walks back to her table, she'll look up at me. I feel my face flush at the very concept, a heat rising inside me. It subsides as she takes her seat without a single glance in my direction.

Focus. She's full of focus.

Damn, but she looks good in that skirt.

I lean back in my chair and feel Munch shift beside me. He worked hard on this case, too, one of the few we've done together. I can't remember what Elliot was doing, but he was somewhere. He didn't have as much invested as I did, though, so maybe that's why he's been more relaxed.

Or maybe he just doesn't get this way every time Alex is in the room like I do.

I'm an embarrassing teenage boy. If I had a penis, there'd be a permanent boner, I'd be reduced to carrying a folder everywhere and my blushing would be far more prominent. Instead, I'm an adult woman with a ridiculous crush and what's turning into a bit of a complex.

I haven't decided what type of complex yet.

I almost smile as I listen to the defense attorney stuff up his closing arguments neatly. Simply, the looks on the faces of the jury tell me that we've won, but I hold back my breath until they all shuffle out of the room and the judge tells us to take a break.

I look to Alex, hoping she'll turn around, come and talk to us, but she doesn't. She's got her head down in paperwork and I don't even know that she's going to move. I have to, when Munch grabs my elbow and demands coffee. If I don't, it'll look very strange.

We hover outside the courtroom, drinking crappy coffee out of crappy Styrofoam cups, and I'm grateful for Munch's relatively taciturn nature. Elliot would want to talk and, right now, I don't feel like talking.

The break is short. The jury is back within half an hour and that bodes well for us. In a case like this, where the evidence is pretty overwhelming, it's likely to mean a conviction. When we shuffle back in and take our seats, my eyes immediately head to Alex's desk. Now she's standing, leaning with her knuckles on the desk, and I admire her pert ass.

I just can't help myself.

If the appreciation causes her any consternation, or if my psychic crush rays make it over to her in any way, she gives no indication.

We stand for the judge. We sit for the judge. Sometimes, I feel like court is one big game of Simon Says and no-one quite understands the rules.

They approach the foreman. Yes, the jury has reached a verdict.

He's guilty. They find him guilty. I let out a sigh of relief as various emotions rattle through the court. The judge sends him off for a later sentencing. Victims' families are crying, hugging; the perp's brother has a thundercloud expression; and the perp himself just looks resigned. Munch looks like Munch.

Alex hasn't turned around.

I want - no, I _need_ - to talk to her before we head back to the precinct. We worked hard on this case; we worked together. Surely a word of victory, a small sense of congratulations, is in order?

"Olivia." Munch is trying to get me to leave.

"Just a sec, I wanna talk to Alex." I shrug him off, walk down the court against the prevailing tide of leavers.

I get to the barrier, where she's just a few feet away, packing her papers into her neat little briefcase.

"Alex." I can't help the softness that creeps into my voice.

She turns to me. Sometimes, I wish she'd actually effect a facial expression when I talk to her. I probably wouldn't even care if it was just disgust, at least that would mean I registered on her radar. She always looks faintly confused when Fin talks and faintly amused when Munch does, but with me, it's like stone.

No, not stone, ice.

Glacial ice.

"Olivia."

And I wish she wouldn't address me so formally.

"Good job counselor, you got him." I smile at her, ignoring the formality as a matter of principle.

"It was a team effort." I think that's the closest she's ever come to acknowledging me, but I take it anyway. Tidbits are everything in this non-relationship.

"I think we'll probably hit up Finnigan's after this, celebratory drink. You in?"

It's not the first time we've asked her to come out for a post-case drink. The invites were slow to start, because as a team we're a cagey bunch and she didn't win us over straight away. When it became clear that her heart was at the very least where ours was, we started inviting her.

She never said yes.

The invites became more common the more often we worked with her. She still never said yes, so they've become more infrequent with time. I'm probably the only person who never gives up, though. Even Elliot has stopped asking, and I think he quite likes Alex.

"Thank you," she murmurs, "but I have plans."

Lies. I know it's a lie. Sometimes, she says 'no' straight out, sometimes she makes excuses, but it all means the same thing.

I nod, hoping my appearance is one of understanding, rather than bitter disappointment

To my surprise, she moves her mouth, an actual expression, though I don't know what the hell it means. "Maybe another time," she murmurs.

That's by far the most she's ever given me. I won't let myself believe she may mean it, but it's still the most I've ever had.

And I feel the heat flush and flow within me. As Munch and I head back to the precinct, I desperately hope for a case, preferably one with a perp I can chase and then throw against a wall, because I feel the desperate need.

She makes me burn.

And I hate it.


	2. Chapter 2

_Alex's POV_

Rating: AA/X. Contains heterosexual sex.

Because Rae won't stop asking for it :) Sorry about the boy bits.

He moves inside me and groans. I can feel the muscles on his back tense, rippling under my hands that lie there. If I didn't have them there, they'd be limp at my side and that would give the game away.

My thighs tense around his, feet tightening around his back, attempting some form of participation in this ritual. I'm not entirely sure he cares, but I make the attempt anyway.

I won the case today. I'd like to boast that I win most of my cases but it wouldn't be true. I'm currently on top of the list that no-one is supposed to know about, the running tally that the DA's office keeps of which ADAs win the most and lose the most. Factoring in difficulty, I've got the best win-loss ratio.

No-one's supposed to know about that list, but I do.

I know a lot of things people that think I don't. I pay a lot of attention, that's how I got where I am. Details, the devil is in the details.

Grant thrusts, harder now, his hands outstretched over me as his hips pump. I know the signs, the grunts coming from his mouth, the tension in his thighs: he's about to come.

I reach a hand up to grip his shoulder, the other one still gripping his waist, and make some appropriate noises. I should come first because that's the appropriate thing to do.

My cry of his name, entirely fabricated, echoes around the room before his wordless yell of exultation, his shudder, as he empties himself into me.

We're engaged - we've been together for three years - so it was logical that we stopped using condoms. Really, what I mean is that it was a logical argument that he put to me and I couldn't find a loop hole, so he won.

I hate it when that happens.

Just like I hate it when he collapses on top of me after. Can't he roll to the side? No-one likes to be crushed into the sheets and it just makes it hard to breathe. If he doesn't pull out soon, I'll get itchy.

Thankfully, he does and rolls off me, coming free as he does so.

I swallow.

"Christ," he mutters.

He's trying to find the strength to roll back and cuddle me. I know he is. He's a smart man, my fiancé. He knows that post-sex means cuddling but, frankly, he's a boy, and I really, really want him to just go to sleep right now.

His arm half-heartedly comes around my waist but it's mere minutes before his snores, gentle though they are, echo through the bedroom. I give it another few minutes before lifting his arm and sliding out of the bed.

I can't wash hard enough. Hand pressed into the wall of the steaming shower as though I'm holding up the building, I wash and wash and wash and still can't lose the thought that he's still inside me. Shuddering, I wash harder, letting the insanely hot water turn my skin a bright shade of crimson and hoping it will all wash off.

It never washes off.

I slide my hand up, to the inside of my left arm, running my fingers along until I feel the rod that sits just under the skin. I need to know it's there. I need to be sure it's still there. It's there.

When I step out, the air from the bathroom, despite the steam from my shower, is cold.

When I slide back into bed, he's snoring and I turn away from him.

I close my eyes and try to think of the cases I have this week, the things I have to do. Focus on work is something that has been drilled into me for a very long time and it's a blissful release.

If I think about work, I don't have to think about other things.

Alex Cabot: hardest working ADA in New York.

It's hours before I drift off.

I function very well on three to four hours of sleep. Even in college, when I finally had some freedom, my pattern didn't vary all that often. When I rouse at nearly six, I'm groggy but I force myself out of bed.

Grant is still snoring. By the time I'm back from my jog, he'll be at the gym. I slide out of the bed and grab my running gear in the dark. Silent, I slip from the room, revelling in the cool dawn air that is still dark.

By the time I've filled my water bottle and I'm ready to leave, the sun is starting to show its dull ache from behind the cityscape of Manhattan. I leave my building and cross to the park, glad that the light is filtering through a wakening city.

I pound the pavement, jogging fast enough to overtake most of the other early risers and exercisers. It's the only thing that makes me burn. I run so hard, I feel it in every part of my body: in my tendons and muscles; in my feet and arms; in my lungs.

I just don't feel it in my head.

The apartment is blissfully empty when I return. I take a second shower, not unusually for me, and I'm ready for work in no time.

I'm so very ready for my day. I'm always ready for my day. I am the queen of pre-preparedness. When I walk into my building, my office, past my colleagues, I'm utterly poised.

I stay that way through the day, cool, calm and collected, until he summons me. I never quite react the same way when I'm called down to the precinct.

It took me some time to learn not to let the cases get to me. Sex Crimes was almost enough to throw my excellent control out of whack. For the first few prosecutions I went through, I found it impossible not to take the pain home with me.

At first, it was just too much, but I've had a lifetime of closing out the things I don't want inside me, the things I don't want to feel. It took some time, but I made it work for me on the job, too.

She doesn't do that. Olivia Benson lets it all in. I've never met anyone more in tune with her life than the bold brunette detective. Her compassion with our vics never ceases to amaze me. She's so much the polar opposite to me that whenever I see her, it unnerves me.

I'm not used to being unnerved.

Gathering myself and my paper work together, I put on my steel shell and head towards the one-six.

God knows what they'll have for me today.


	3. Chapter 3

They're coming slowly but they're coming.

Rated: U

The **Law & Order** franchise -specifically **Law & Order: Special Victims Unit** - and all its characters are the properties of Dick Wolf, Wolf Productions and NBC-Universal-Vivendi and are used here entirely without permission.

* * *

**_Olivia_**

When the captain called me into his office, I didn't think too much of it. It's been busy lately - there have been cases flying left, right and centre - and Elliot and I have been in the thick of it.

When he told Elliot he just wanted to talk to me, that's when I took notice.

Frowning, I step into his office.

Sitting at a chair in front of Cragen's desk is Alex Cabot, the one person who always makes it hard for me to function. Being attracted to a woman is hard enough because it's basically new for me; for it to be Alex Cabot just makes it all that harder.

She acknowledges me with a bare nod. That's all I get from Alex most days. Sometimes, when she's prepping me for a case, I get more, but not often. It's insane because the lack of acknowledgment only makes me yearn for more. If she was more open with me, if she gave just a little, I wonder if I'd want her so much.

When her head turns back to face Cragen I see the delicate shell of her ear and my inside tightens.

Yeah, I'd want her this much.

"Sir?"

"Sit down, Detective Benson."

Frowning again, I do as I'm told. He usually calls me Olivia. Am I in trouble? And, if I am, why the hell is Alex here?

"I have a case that will take some… delicate work. I've decided that it would be best if as few people as possible know about it."

Alex nods, and I just raise an eyebrow. Shifting in my chair, I hope ADA Cabot doesn't see me wriggling, although she probably thinks I'm just another idiot cop anyway.

"Alex, you must know Councilman Jackson."

"Of course. He's likely to run on the Democrat ticket for Congress this fall. Everyone in New York knows him." Her smooth voice makes me forget, just for a second, that they're now both treating me like I'm an ignoramus. But only for a second.

"He's the mayor's cousin, isn't he?" I murmur.

I get an appraising look from the Captain at any rate.

"Not many people know he has three children."

I see Alex frown out of the corner of my eye. "Three?"

"Yes." Donald Cragen sits behind his desk and bites his lip. "The Jacksons' oldest child is profoundly disabled. She spends about half of her time living at home with them and a carer and the rest in a respite home upstate."

I blink and he continues.

"On the whole, they keep Kasey out of the media, though all their close friends know."

I try not to snort. To me, it sounds like they just don't want the world to know their family isn't perfect. It's the exact sort of behaviour the rich of New York seem to propagate and that make me want to sneer at them.

Alex however, makes an appropriately proper 'mmm' to the left of me.

I look back to Cragen, and he continues. "Tom Jackson came to me yesterday, asking for us to investigate the respite home for… interfering with his daughter. As it happens, Kasey is eighteen weeks pregnant."

"Christ." I can't help but say it.

"Indeed," he replies. Alex just looks at me, her expression unfathomable.

"Kasey has a mental age of no more than two years. There is no way you could argue that consent was possible, so we're looking at rape."

I see Alex start to take notes. I guess the legalese of this is definitely her job, but I can't quite get past the idea of this poor girl being pregnant.

"Cap'n?"

"Yes, Olivia?"

I don't know how to say this, so I just say it. "If she spends half her time at home, how can we be sure it was someone at the care home?"

He stares at me. I can't help it: it's my job to ask these questions. "The only people who have access to Kasey at home are her father, mother, brother, sister and female carer."

Softly, I reply, "That's well as may be, sir, but it doesn't answer my question."

I watch Donald Cragen fold his fingers together. I can't help but wonder if I'm about to get my ass handed to me on a plate.

"There's a good reason I asked you to be on this case, Olivia. It needs a definitively soft touch and, as brilliant a cop as Elliot is, he'd take this one to heart. You're right, I have no way to prove that it was at the home that Kasey was abused. That's why you're going to have to tread very carefully." He leans forward and looks at us. "Make no mistake, our job is to find out who raped Kasey Jackson and see to it that they're prosecuted for their crimes. Our job is not to placate Councilman Jackson or, for that matter, to bend the justice system for someone who doesn't deserve it."

I know, deep in my heart, that he's addressing Alex more than me. Part of me understands, because she has a lot of political connections. After all, her father is a US Senator. I know that she, however, takes her job as seriously as me.

"Yes, sir," I say very quietly.

Alex says nothing.

"Given the situation, it might be a good idea if you two introduce yourselves to the Jackson family."

I see Alex shift in her seat.

"You know them, Alex?" Cragen's eyes miss nothing.

"The Councilman is good friends with my father," she granted, "but I'm not close to them personally. We meet only at social occasions."

Her enunciation is perfect, of course. There are very few times I can forget that Alex is a Senator's daughter and will probably be a Senator herself one day. Her world is not for the likes of me. Down-and-dirty detectives do not get to be friends, let alone anything else, with people like Alex Cabot.

The reminder stings.

"Still, I think going to see them is a good place to start. I'd like you two to work closely on this. Olivia, take Alex with you, consider her a partner on this."

If my annoyance shows, Cragen makes no response to it and neither does Alex. Secretly, beneath my calm exterior, however, I'm burning.

I can do my job just fine. I don't need Alex Cabot to hold my hand, or, as is much more likely, to slow me down. I've been a detective for many years now and I think I can question suspects with adequate decorum.

I'm also not sure how much time I can handle in Alex's presence.

The boss makes it clear we're to vacate his office and, before I can think of a way to politely protest, Miss Blonde ADA and I are summarily but gently removed. When we're standing in the squad room, she looks at me - actually looks at me - square in the eye.

"Well, Detective, I suppose we'd best get going."

I look back at her, hoping that the flush that I swear is creeping up my face isn't all that visible.

"I need to gather a few things together," I try not to mumble. I don't really need to delay, but I'll be damned if I'll let Alex tell me what to do. I feel like my head's burning and I can't think straight. I need to clear my thoughts and actually concentrate on this case.

The last thing I want to do is look like a moron in front of Alex Cabot.

"What should I do?" For a second, I think she sounds lost, but I can still see the fine steel in her eyes. I'm not sure she bends or softens for anyone.

"Meet me here in an hour? We'll take the squad car."

For a second, I see a ghost of a smile play on her lips. One of her eyebrows raises. "Will I have to disinfect myself afterwards?"

I'd be insulted, but I can hear the subtle teasing in her voice. If I hadn't worked with her for so long, I might have taken it for an insult but I've learned. I know her better than she thinks I do.

"No, this is Elliot's and my car, not Munch's."

"Glad to hear it," she murmurs. As she shoulders her bag, I can't help but watch her blonde hair move like gossamer threads in the sunlight. "I'll meet you here in an hour."

I nod.

It's going to be a long afternoon.


	4. Chapter 4

For all those people who kindly, kindly commented.

This story won't move too fast, but hopefully also not too slowly. I actually hope to build some plot here. One story I wrote had no, er, 'action', until chapter 40, although I highly doubt that will happen here. I hope the lack of 'smut' won't turn anyone away. People seem to expect it these days!

Usual disclaimers apply.

Beta'd by the amazing Dev.

* * *

Olivia had seemed ill-at-ease. She was trying to hide it well but I've spent enough of my time at the One-Six covertly watching her that I could see it. I read people. I'm a prosecutor: it's what I do.

Well, normally, what I do is read people, spot their weaknesses and exploit them. I'll be damned if I ever do that to Detective Benson, though.

I'm not surprised that she's a little put out. Effectively, Donald Cragen just made me her partner without asking. Not only is she suddenly not working with Elliot - and I know what those two mean to each other - but now she's stuck with me.

If I were Olivia, I probably wouldn't want an ADA trailing after me, either.

On the other hand, I know Councilman Jackson fairly well and if anyone's going to get the family to open up, it's going to be me. I suppose that's why Donald put me on the case with her.

I spend a moment trying to deny that this gives me a secret thrill. I think everyone who's not already in law enforcement, deep down inside, has moments where they imagine that they're detectives, be it solo or working for the police. I suspect most people have a hidden longing to save the world from secret plots and unknown evils.

My father would have had me committed to a lunatic asylum before he would have let me join the police force. I think he still feels that working for the public prosecutor's office may be just a little too grubby for the Cabot name. His only positive feelings about my career revolve around the people I will meet and the name I can make for myself.

I know he doesn't - and never will - understand why I do the job I do. We've had words concerning my reticence at going for promotions and my insistence on working for the Sex Crimes unit.

He doesn't understand what it means to take these people off the street.

He doesn't understand how it makes me feel.

My father is a man who doesn't feel. He brought me up to be a lady who doesn't feel. He'd be unamused if he knew, occasionally, just how much I felt.

Olivia unnerves me. Where I am poised, she's fiery and passionate. Despite this, she keeps herself in good check and she's an excellent detective. Nevertheless, she unnerves me.

In a half-hour, I have to meet her back at the precinct and spend the afternoon interviewing witnesses with her: not any witnesses, either, but the Jacksons. This is going to take some special manoeuvring on my part. I'm uncertain if Donald wants me to rein Olivia in or give her full movement.

You can't go around accusing someone like Councilman Jackson of getting his own disabled daughter pregnant. While it's true that not many people know about Kasey, those of us who know the family well, do. They just keep her fairly quiet because they don't want a media circus around her. That's why I was so surprised when Donald mentioned her.

The Jacksons are good people and Councilman Jackson is a good man. I imagine this must be tearing him apart. I make a mental note not to let Olivia rile him up too much. He must be going through hell.

Perhaps that's why Cragen asked me to go with her.

On the other hand, I've rarely seen Olivia get inappropriate with suspects. On occasion, Elliot steps out of line but Olivia is usually the level-headed one.

It takes me a minute to realise that my brain is rambling. My normally very ordered and very tidy thoughts are scattering to the extent that my coffee is half-lifted to my lips and it's entirely possible that it's been there for several minutes.

I take a sip and check my watch.

Ten minutes.

I stand up from the coffee shop table and pick up my latte. It occurs to me that it would have been polite to buy one for Olivia, but I don't actually know what she drinks. I make a mental note to ask, considering we're going to be working together.

My heels click on the way through to the relevant squad room. I enjoy their rhythm; I always do. There's something soothing about the way I can control them, the way that they make the same noise and the same rhythm depending on how I move my feet.

When I get to the squad room, Olivia is shouldering into her wool coat. I'm secretly glad, as I don't feel like arguing with her today. And, since she's driving, I guess I'm in her hands for the moment.

"Ready?" I ask.

"I'm good," she replies, biting her lip.

Her sedan is clean, as promised. It's a standard issue, nothing like what I drive. Sometimes, I think if I slipped into someone who wasn't really me I might do something crazy like buy a convertible, but what I own is a very well made BMW.

This Ford is good enough, though. I slide into the front seat and watch Olivia take the driver's seat. She pulls out of the parking slot neatly and heads out into the wild streets of Manhattan.

If at all possible, I try not to drive in the city. I don't like the complete lack of control that's evident in the traffic, so I take the subway or mostly taxis. Watching Olivia negotiate the traffic works for me, though. She does it well.

"I think we should match strategy before we get there," I say smoothly. "I'm not sure getting off on the wrong foot with Councilman Jackson is our best way of approaching this."

I see her knuckles tighten on the steering wheel, and the edge of her mouth follows. For a fleeting second, I wonder why I'm so acutely tuned to Detective Benson and then her mouth opens.

"Why are you all so damn sure I'm going to run in there guns blazing? This is a victim's family. I've got fairly decent experience at this."

It's true. She does. I don't know why I suddenly feel like she's likely to fly off the handle. Perhaps its because I saw the look in her eyes when Don told her about Kasey. I understand where her compassion lies and it's with the victim. Perhaps all I have to do is wait until she sees Mrs Jackson with her daughter.

I lied when I said I didn't know them personally. I know them better than as mere social passing acquaintances but, at the same time, I wouldn't call myself a close family friend. I just don't want Olivia seeing it that way. I don't want Don Cragen to see it that way either. This is my job and, while I have been known to call in favours before, I like to stand on my own feet.

"I'm sorry," I reply genuinely, hoping she can hear it. "I just know how sensitive they're going to be. I have a feeling we have to be united or we're going to end up tripping over ourselves."

"Well, I'll tell you what, I'll do my job, and you do yours. Since we don't do the same job, we shouldn't end up tripping over each other." Her knuckles tighten again.

I have just been put in my place. Bizarrely, all it does is put a very slight wry smile on my face.

"As you say, Detective Benson, as you say."

We pull up to the Upper East Side brownstone and miraculously find a parking spot in front. I note that it's a No Parking zone, but I suspect that she won't get a ticket.

The door is opened by a gentleman I recognise as Councilman Jackson's assistant.

"You must be Detective Benson and Miss Cabot." He's been briefed. "Do come in. We're expecting you." Of course they are.

We're led through what can only be labelled as a very tasteful and impressive hallway leading down to what must be the Councilman's office. He stands up from his desk.

"Alex." He moves around his desk until he's by us, giving me a friendly kiss on the cheek.

"Councilman."

"Tom, please. Surely we're past Mr Jackson by now?" He turns to Olivia.

"Detective Benson," she introduces herself, putting out one of those perfect hands of hers. "I'm from SVU."

"Yes, Donald said you'd be coming. Please, sit down, sit down." Ushering us to the chairs in front of his desk, he takes his own chair. "Can I get you anything, coffee, tea?"

I follow Olivia's cue and shake my head.

"If you wouldn't mind, Councilman, we'll need to know what happened." Olivia pulls out her notebook. I settle back into my chair and listen, ready for anything that may become relevant to my part of the investigation.

"Of course. Well, Kasey is here about sixty percent of the time, with a full-time carer we employ for her, Anna."

"We'll need to talk to her," Olivia interrupts.

"Naturally, anyone you need to talk to will be available as you need." He takes a sip of water and continues, "Kasey spends the rest of her time at St. Bart's, which is a respite home a few hours north of here. She's been staying there since she was a teenager. Up until now, they've been excellent."

Olivia nods and I shift slightly.

Tom continues, "Kasey came home to us about six weeks ago. She was due to return next week, which has naturally been put off. It was only after a few weeks that my wife noticed that she hadn't… menstruated." He seems sad rather than uncomfortable. "There have been doctors that have advised us to have Kasey's uterus removed, but we've never felt comfortable with that. We'd like Kasey to have the most normal life possible, whatever that means for her. At any rate, it took a simple visit to Kasey's doctor to confirm that she is, in fact, pregnant."

I can hear the strain in his voice, and I hope Olivia can too. I know that she needs to keep an open mind, as do I, but I can fairly well assure myself that Tom Jackson is not guilty of this particular crime.

I see him bite his lip and look at Olivia.

"When did Kasey go to the respite service?" the detective next to me asks. I appreciate her gentle tone at least.

"Six weeks before she came home."

"And how pregnant do the doctors say she is?"

"Twelve weeks."

It takes less than a second of mental arithmetic to put the conception right on the cusp of when Kasey left for the respite service. Olivia can't rule out anyone at home or in the family. Clearly, Tom Jackson knows what we're thinking.

"Our whole family visits Kasey at St. Barts, even without the timing. I understand you'll have to cast a wide net."

So much for Olivia being so suspicious. I feel a little bit vindicated and a little bit smug.

"What's going to happen to Kasey?"

I see Tom take a deep breath in. "We're seeing our OB-GYN on Tuesday. The pregnancy will not continue." His hands are shaking.

"Thank you for your time, Councilman Jackson. I can see how hard this is for you." Olivia closes her notebook and gives him the warm, press-lipped smile that she offers to anyone with whom she's sympathising.

"We'll co-operate in anyway you need, Detective. Just… just find who did this to my little girl."

"We'll do everything we can, I promise."

We're all standing now.

"Councilman?"

"Yes, Detective?"

"Would it be possible to meet Kasey?"

He smiles. "Of course. Please, follow me."


	5. Chapter 5

Another update for another day. Comments are love people. Comments are love.

* * *

I've never yet solved a case without getting to know the victim. It's part of what makes the job so hard for me and, yet, at the same time, it's the key for me when it comes to actually getting the case straight in my head.

When Councilman Jackson leads us upstairs, I'm not sure what to expect. He leads us down a corridor and through a door. Suddenly, Alex and I are standing in the most light-filled room I've ever been in: the windows are huge and seem to be everywhere; the paint is a very light yellow; and the whole room is practically glowing with sunlight. The room is filled with things to do - it's the most glorious play room any child could wish for - and right in the middle is a lady and someone who is unmistakably Kasey.

If it weren't for the posturing, the mannerisms and the noises, you probably wouldn't be able to tell she was disabled, but it's clear, even from the doorway. She's finger-painting with the lady standing with her, who's wearing an apron covered in paint and laughing.

"Anna," the councilman says, "this is the detective from SVU, and you remember Alex Cabot."

The lady turns to us and I realise that she must be Kasey's mother.

When I first heard the story of this case from Cragen, I had to admit that there were many assumptions that popped into my head - rich family, disabled daughter, flinging her into a country asylum so that no-one knows but what I didn't expect was this: a family who clearly love and desperately want to protect their daughter; a family who don't seem to be hiding anything. This is a family who are hurting.

It makes me feel guilty for actually having thought those things.

"Alex, so good to see you again. I'd give you a hug but…" Mrs Jackson holds up her hands with a smile.

"Of course, Anna. So good to see you again."

"And welcome, Detective."

"Olivia, please." I smile at her, eyes still on Kasey. The happiness on her face, as her fingers mix green and blue and orange to make some kind of goopy brown colour, is unmissable.

"Kasey, this is Olivia and Alex," Anna says to her daughter. Kasey doesn't look up, utterly enthralled with her work.

"Sorry," Councilman Jackson says with a smile. "She's hard to distract when she's determined."

I wouldn't distract her for the world.

We slip away, back downstairs, and I chance a look at Alex's face. Her expression, never easy to gauge, is more unreadable than ever. There's a reason the boys down at the precinct call her an ice queen.

When we reach the office again, we're offered our seats, but I decline.

"We'll need to interview your staff," I remind him.

"They're at your disposal."

"And -"

"And your forensics service will have a sample of my DNA within the next day, Detective Benson," he adds, his voice suddenly steely.

"Olivia," I hear Alex's warning tones.

"That's very forthcoming of you, Councilman."

"I have nothing to hide. The sooner everyone knows that, the better." He sits behind his desk, even though Alex and I are still standing, and I'm entirely uncertain as to what to do next. It's typical, though, that Alex knows exactly what to do.

She goes to him, sits on the chair she was on before and pulls it up to the desk.

"Tom, we'll figure out what happened."

He gives us both a wan smile. "I wouldn't trust anyone more."

"And I promise you to see justice done."

He just nods.

"And I promise to stop Detective Benson from wielding her questions like a weapon."

At this point, I have to interject, "Hey!" If anything, it breaks the uneasy mood that's been hovering over the three of us since our arrival. Councilman Jackson chuckles while Alex raises an amused eyebrow at me and I growl at her.

"I know Don Cragen well enough to know he's sent me the best," Tom Jackson says simply. "I'm not particularly used to leaving things in other people's hands but sometimes you just need an expert. I wouldn't operate on one of my children if they needed surgery and I can't find justice myself. If the two of you will forgive me my… impatience, I'll try my best not to get in your way."

Impatience? If this is Councilman Jackson being impatient, then he must be the most laid-back man on the planet. He even volunteered his DNA. Usually, I have to coerce people into that with the best weapon I know: Alex Cabot.

I can't help being thoughtful as we leave, having given our assurances and goodbyes. Now is not a good time, for either me or Alex, to interview the rest of the Jackson household. I've set up a chance to see the brother and the carer tomorrow. I suspect the sister and the mother will be of little use. From the little that I've seen of Anna Jackson, she was in no way involved in this.

Although, those kind of assumptions have made us look like fools before.

As I clip my seatbelt into the holder, I hear Alex clear her throat gently. "I suspect we'll have more to find at the respite home."

I bite my lip before I reply snappily. I suspect she's right, but the comment still gets a rise out of me, even if I don't verbalise it. "How about you leave the detecting to me and you get me a warrant to see their files?"

She chuckles. "We'll have to find some pretty major probable cause before we can go looking through patient notes, Detective Benson."

I hate it when she treats me like an idiot. I hate it when what I've said is so stupid that she's justified in treating me like an idiot. I know well and good how hard it is to get access to patient files.

This is what Alex Cabot does to me: she turns me into an idiot.

I spend the rest of the trip burning with quiet indignation at my own stupidity, and her taking advantage of it. Couldn't she just have failed to point out my idiot nature?

She probably thinks I'm a lunatic. She certainly seems to think I'm a blunt-headed detective with no finesse. I hate that she thinks that of me. I'm not the suavest person in the world, and certainly don't have the cultural refinement to move in the same circles as Alex Cabot, but I'm not some bumbling fool.

I drop her back at the DA's office at Hogan Place and say goodbye before she can start anything more than a conversation. I may even be guilty of driving off on her.

I still can't stop myself from watching her in the rear view mirror, standing there so very beautiful in her dress suit. Does she know that she looks like a super-model every second of the day? Probably not.

It's too late to go back to work. I'm not likely to be expected back; anyway, Elliot's on take and I'm far too edgy to get paperwork done. Instead, I head to the gym to try and work off some of this energy I seem to have acquired.

I don't know who I'm punching as I take on the bag but, after half an hour, all I've achieved is sore knuckles and a more keyed-up body than ever. My shower does nothing to ease my tension and dinner gets left half-eaten on my kitchen counter.

I hate when I'm like this.

I hate what I do when I'm like this.

I'd hate to think what people who know me would say if they knew what I did when I'm like this.

But I can't not. I can't help myself. I need it, like I need her, and I don't understand that any more than why I start fights with her because they're something, not nothing. I can't think straight when I'm like this.

Same old bar, same old place.

And it will end up the same.

But I just can't help myself.

Because I'm on fire.


End file.
